HN  MEMQEIAM, 
Chester  Harvey  Rowell 

^-€A$£~ 

\<2<v 

db: 

1  .  ,  

DUP\iAL  AT  5EA  Or 
DAVID 


THESE  PAGES    RECOUNT    LITTLE 
JOURNEYS  MADE  TO  THE  HOMES 

OF 

RUSKIN  and  TURNER 

BY  ELBERT  HUBBARD 


Done  into  a  Book  at  the  ROYCROFT  PRINT 

^ 

ING  SHOP  that  is  in  East  Aurora,  New 

U.  S.  A. 
MDCCCXCV1 


OF  THIS  EDITION  BUT  FOUR  HUNDRED  AND 
SEVENTY-THREE  COPIES  WERE  PRINTED,  AND 
TYPES  THEN  DISTRIBUTED  MMT  EACH  COPY  IS 
SIGNED  AND  NUMBERED  AND  THIS  BOOK  IS 
NUMBER  Q  *i 

C^  I 

^ 


Copyright  by 
G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 


R1592510 


A  LIST  OF  PHOTOGRAVURE  REPRODUCTIONS 
OF  TURNER  MASTERPIECES  *«g&  MADE  FROM 
NEGATIVES  TAKEN  ESPECIALLY  FOR  THIS 
BOOK,  AT  THE  NATIONAL  GALLERY,  LONDON  : 


Burial  at  Sea  of  Sir  David  Wilkie  Frontispiece 

Bay  of  Baix:  Caligula's  Palace  and  Bridge  13 

Crossing  the  Brook  16 

Spithead  Boats  Recovering  an  Anchor  21 

Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage  24 

Death  of  Nelson  33 

The  Bay  of  Baix  :  Apollo  and  the  Sibyl  36 

Calais  Pier:  Fishing  Boats  Departing  for  Sea;  English 

Packet  Arriving  40 

On  Kingston  Bank  43 

Ulysses  Deriding  Polyphemus  46 

The  Fighting  Temeraire  51 
Carthage  :  Dido  Directing  the  Equipment  of  the  Fleet      52 


Put  roses  in  their  hair,  put  precious  stones  on  their 
breasts ;  see  that  they  are  clothed  in  purple  and  scarlet, 
with  other  delights  ;  that  they  also  learn  to  read  the  gilded 
heraldry  of  the  sky ;  and  upon  the  earth  be  taught  not 
only  the  labours  of  it  but  the  loveliness. 

DEUCALION. 


BAY  Or  BA1X: 

CALIQULA\5  PALACE 


TWINDERMERE 
a  good  friend  told  me 
i  that  I  must  abandon 
I  all  hope  of  seeingMr. 
Ruskin ;  for  I  had  no 
special  business  *^ 
with  him,  no  letters 
of  introduction,  and 
then  the  fact  that  I 
\  am  an  American 
made  it  final.  Amer- 
icans in  England  are 
{supposed  to  pick  -jV 
flowers  in  private 
[gardens,  cut  their 
names  on  trees,  laugh  boisterously  at  trifles,  and  make  in- 
vidious comparisons.  Very  properly  Mr.  Ruskin  does  not 
admire  these  things  r^£> 

Then  Mr.  Ruskin  is  a  very  busy  man  &  Occasionally 
he  issues  a  printed  manifesto  to  his  friends  request- 
ing them  to  give  him  peace  c%&'  A  copy  of  one  such  cir- 
cular was  shown  to  me.  It  runs,  "  Mr.  J.  Ruskin  is  about 
to  begin  a  work  of  great  importance  and  therefore  begs 
that  in  reference  to  calls  and  correspondence  you  will 
consider  him  dead  for  the  next  two  months."  A  similar 
notice  is  reproduced  in  Arrows  of  the  Chace,  and  this  one 
thing,  I  think,  illustrates  as  forcibly  as  anything  in  Mr. 
Raskin's  work  the  self-contained  characteristics  of  the 
man  himself  t^a  Surely  if  a  man  is  pleased  to  be  considered 
"  dead"  occasionally,  even  to  his  kinsmen  and  friends, he 
should  not  be  expected  to  receive  an  enemy  with  open 
arms  to  steal  away  his  time.  This  is  assuming,  of  course, 
that  all  individuals  who  pick  flowers  in  other  folks'gardens, 
cut  their  names  on  trees,  and  laugh  boisterously  at  trifles, 

13 


Q&USKIN 

AND 
BURNER 


USKIN 
AND 
URNER 


are  enemies.  I  therefore  decided  that  I  would  simply  walk 
over  to  Brantwood,  view  it  from  a  distance,  tramp  over 
its  hills,  row  across  the  lake,  and  at  nightfall  take  a  swim 
in  its  waters.  Then  I  would  rest  at  the  Inn  for  a  space 
and  go  my  way  r€^£> 

Lake  Coniston  is  ten  miles  from  Grasmere,  and  even  alone 
the  walk  is  not  long.  If,  however,  you  are  delightfully  at- 
tended by  King's  Daughters'  with  whom  you  sit  and  com- 
mune now  and  then  on  the  bankside,  the  distance  will 
seem  to  be  much  less.  Then  there  is  a  pleasant  little  break 
in  the  journey  at  Hawkshead  &  Here  one  may  see  the 
quaint  old  school-house  where  Wordsworth  when  a  boy 
dangled  his  feet  from  a  bench  and  proved  his  humanity 
by  carving  his  initials  on  the  seat.  Then  this  whole  coun- 
try is  rich  in  Wordsworth  incident  and  Wordsworth  sug- 
gestion. The  Inn  at  the  head  of  Coniston  Water  appeared 
very  inviting  and  restful  when  I  saw  it  that  afternoon. 
Built  in  sections  from  generation  to  generation,  half  cov- 
ered with  ivy  and  embowered  in  climbing  roses,  it  is  an 
institution  entirely  different  from  the  *'  Grand  Palace  Ho- 
tel "   at  Oshkosh.  In  America  we  have  gongs  that  are 
fiercely  beaten  at  stated  times  by  gentlemen  of  color,  just 
as  they  are  supposed  to  do  in  their  native  Congo  jungles. 
This  din  proclaims  to  the  "guests"  and  the  public 
at  large  that  it  is  time  to  come  in  and  be  fed.  But 
this  refinement  of  civilization  is  not  yet  in 
Coniston  and  the  Inn  is  quiet  and  home- 
like. You  may  go  to  bed  when  you 
are    tired,   get  up  when  you 
choose,   and    eat  when 
you  are  hungry. 


HERE  were  no  visitors  about  when  I 
[arrived  and  I  thought  I  would  have  the 
coffee  room  all  to  myself  at  luncheon 
time ;  but  presently  there  came  in  a 
pleasant-faced  old  gentleman  in  knick- 
erbockers. He  bowed  to  me  and  then 
took  a  place  at  the  table.  He  said  that 
it  was  a  fine  day  and  I  agreed  with  him, 
adding  that  the  mountains  were  very 
beautiful.  He  assented,  putting  in  a  co- 
dicil to  the  effect  that  the  lake  was  very 
pretty.  Then  the  waiter  came  for  our  or- 


"Together,!  s'pose?"  remarked  Thomas 
inquiringly,  as  he  halted  at  the  door  and 
[balanced  the  tray  on  his  finger  tips. 

"Yes,  serve  lunch  for  us  together," 
I  said  the  ruddy  old  gentleman   as  he 
looked  at  me  and  smiled,  "  to  eat  alone 
| is  bad  for  the  digestion." 
I  nodded  assent. 

"Can  you  tell  me  how  far  it  is  to 
iBrantwood?"  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  not  far,  just  across  the  lake." 
He  arose  and  flung  the  shutter  open 
I  so  I  could  see  the  old  yellow  house 
about  a  mile  across  the  water,  nestling 
in  its  wealth  of  green  on  the  hillside. 
Soon  the  waiter  brought  our  lunch,  and 
(while  we  discussed  the  chops  and  new 
potatoes  we  talked  Ruskiniana.  The  old  gentleman  knew 
a  deal  more  of  Stones  of  Venice  and  Modern  Painters 
than  I ;  but  I  told  him  how  Thoreau  introduced  Ruskin 
to  America  and  how  Concord  was  the  first  place  in  the 


QRlJSKIN 

AND 
BURNER 


AND 
BURNER 


New  World  to  recognize  this  star  in  the  East.  And  upon 
my  saying  this,  the  old  gentleman  brought  his  knife-han- 
dle down  on  the  table,  declaring  that  Thoreau  and  Whit- 
man were  the  only  two  men  of  genius  that  America  had 
produced.  I  begged  him  to  make  it  three  and  include 
Emerson,  which  he  finally  consented  to  do  "v^^" 

Y  AND  by  the  waiter  cleared  the  table  prepara- 
tory to  bringing  in  the  coffee.  The  old  gentleman 
pushed  his  chair  back,  took  the  napkin  from  un- 
der his  double  chin,  brushed  the  crumbs  from 
his  goodly  front,  and  remarked:  "  I'm  going  over  to  Brant- 
wood  this  afternoon  to  call  on  Mr.  Ruskin — just  to  pay  my 
respects  to  him,  as  I  always  do  when  I  come  here.  Can't 
you  go  with  me  ?  "  I  think  this  was  about  the  most  pleas- 
ing question  I  ever  had  asked  me.  I  was  going  to  request 
him  to  "  come  again  "  just  for  the  joy  of  hearing  the  words, 
but  I  pulled  my  dignity  together,  straightened  up,  swal- 
lowed my  coffee  red  hot,  pushed  my  chair  back,  flourished 
my  napkin,  and  said :  "  I  shall  be  much  pleased  to  go."  *f* 
So  we  went.  We  two :  he  in  his  knickerbockers  and  I  in 
my  checks  and  outing  shirt.  I  congratulated  myself  on 
looking  no  worse  than  he,  and  as  for  him,  he  never  seemed 
to  think  our  costumes  were  not  exactly  what  they  should 
be  ;  and  after  all  it  matters  little  how  you  dress  when  you 
call  on  one  of  nature's  noblemen — they  demand  no  livery. 
We  walked  around  the  northern  end  of  Coniston  Water, 
along  the  eastern  edge,  past  Tent  House,  where  Tennyson 
once  lived  (and  found  it  "  outrageous  quiet,")  and  a  mile 
farther  on  we  came  to  Brantwood  <9t 
The  road  curves  in  to  the  back  of  the  house — which  by 
the  way,  is  the  front — and  the  driveway  is  lined  with  great 
trees  that  form  a  complete  archway.  There  is  no  lodge- 
keeper,  no  flower  beds  laid  out  with  square  and  compass, 
no  trees  trimmed  to  appear  like  elephants,  no  cast-iron 
16 


CF\O.5^INQ  THE  EF\2°K 


dogs,  nor  terra  cotta  deer,  and,  strangest  of  all,  no  sign  of 
the  lawn-mower.  There  is  nothing,  in  fact,  to  give  forth  a 
sign  that  the  great  Apostle  of  Beauty  lives  in  this  very 
old-fashioned  spot.  Big  bowlders  are  to  be  seen  here  and 
there  where  nature  left  them,  tangles  of  vines  running 
over  old  stumps,  part  of  the  meadow  cut  close  with  a 
scythe,  and  part  growing  up  as  if  the  owner  knew  the 
price  of  hay.  Then  there  are  flower  beds  where  grow  clus- 
ters of  poppies  and  hollyhocks,  purple,  and  scarlet,  and 
white ;  prosaic  gooseberry  bushes,  plain  Yankee  pieplant 
(from  which  the  English  make  tarts) ,  rue,  and  sweet  mar- 
joram, with  patches  of  fennel,  sage,  thyme,  and  catnip,  all 
lined  off  with  boxwood,  making  me  think  of  my  grand- 
mother's garden  at  Roxbury  ^^ 

On  the  hillside  above  the  garden  we  saw  the  entrance  to 

the  cave  that  Mr.  Ruskin  once  Riled  with  ice,  just  to  show 

the  world  how  to  keep  its  head  cool  at  small  expense.  He 

even  wrote  a  letter  to  the  papers  giving  the  bright  idea 

to  humanity — that  the  way  to  utilize  caves  was  to  fill 

them  with  ice.  Then  he  forgot  all  about  the  matter. 

But  the  following  June  when  the  cook,  wishing  to 

make  some  ice  cream  as  a  glad  surprise  for 

the  Sunday  dinner,  opened  the  natural 

ice-chest,  she  found  only  a  pool  of 

muddy    water,   and  exclaimed: 

"Botheration!"  Then  they 

had  custard  instead  of 

ice-cream. 


Q&USKIN 

AND 
BURNER 


USKIN 
AND 
URNER 


E  walked  up  the  steps,  and  my  friend 
let  the  brass  knocker  drop  just  once,  for 
only  Americans  give  a  rat-a-tat-tat,  and 
the  door  was  opened  by  a  white-whis- 
kered butler,  who  took  our  cards  and 
ushered  us  into  the  library.  My  heart 
beat  a  trifle  fast  as  I  took  inventory  of 
the  room  ;  for  I  never  before  had  called 
Ion  a  man  who  was  believed  to  have 
(refused  the  poet  laureatship.  A  dimly 
[lighted  room  was  this  library — walls 
painted  brown,  running  up  to  mellow 
lyellow  at  the  ceiling;  high  book-shelves 
[with  a  step-ladder,  and  only  five  pic- 
jtures  on  the  walls,  and  of  these  three 
Iwere  etchings,  and  two  water  colors 
lof  a  very  simple  sort ;  leather  covered 
chairs,  a  long  table  in  the  centre,  on 
Iwhich  were  strewn  sundry  magazines 
land  papers,  also  several  photographs, 
land  at  one  end  of  the  room  a  big  fire- 
place, where  a  yew  log  smouldered.^ 
[Here  my  inventory  was  cut  short  by  a 
(cheery  voice  : 

"  Ah !  now,  gentlemen,  I  am  glad  to 
[see  you." 

There  was  no  time  nor  necessity  for 
a  formal  introduction.  The  great  man 
took  my  hand  as  if  he  had  always 
[known  me,  as  perhaps  he  thought  he 
had.  Then  he  greeted  my  friend  in  the  same  way,  stirred 
up  the  fire,  for  it  was  a  north  of  England  summer  day,  and 
took  a  seat  by  the  table.  We  were  all  silent  for  a  space — 
a  silence  without  embarrassment 
18 


"  You  were  looking  at  the  etching  over  the  fireplace — it 
was  sent  to  me  by  a  young  lady  in  America,"  said  Mr. 
Ruskin,  "  and  I  placed  it  there  to  get  acquainted  with  it. 

I  like  it  more  and  more.  Do  you  know  the  scene  ?  "  I  knew 
the  scene  and  explained  somewhat  about  it  **£& 

R.  RUSKIN  has  the  faculty  of  making  his  in- 
terviewer do  most  of  the  talking.  He  is  a  rare 
listener,  and  leans  forward,  putting  a  hand  be- 
hind his  right  ear  to  get  each  word  you  say  jft 
He  was  particularly  interested  in  the  industrial  conditions 
of  America,  and  I  soon  found  myself  "  occupying  the 
time,"  while  an  occasional  word  of  interrogation  from  Mr. 
Ruskin  gave  me  no  chance  to  stop.  I  came  to  hear  him, 
not  to  defend  our  "republican  experiment,"  as  he  was 
pleased  to  call  the  United  States  of  America.  Yet  Mr.  Rus- 
kin was  so  gentle  and  respectful  in  his  manner,  and  so 
complimentary  in  his  attitude  of  a  listener,  that  my  im- 
patience at  his  want  of  sympathy  for  our  "  experiment  " 
only  caused  me  to  perspire  a  trifle  '*&& 

II  The  fact  of  women  being  elected  to  mayoralties  in  Kan- 
sas makes  me  think  of  certain  African  tribes  that  exalt 
their  women  into  warriors — you  want  your  women  to  fight 
your  political  battles !  " 

"  You  evidently  hold  the  same  opinion  on  the  subject  of 
equal  rights  that  you  expressed  some  years  ago,"  inter- 
posed my  companion  ^lUf 

"What  did  I  say — really  I  have  forgotten  most  of  the 
opinions  I  once  held?  " 

"  You  replied  to  a  correspondent,  saying  :  «  You  are  cer- 
tainly right  as  to  my  views  respecting  the  female  fran- 
chise. So  far  from  wishing  to  give  votes  to  women,  I  would 
fain  take  them  away  from  most  men.'  " 
"  Surely  that  was  a  sensible  answer.  My  respect  for  wom- 
an is  too  great  to  force  on  her  increased  responsibilities. 

19 


Q^USKIN 

AND 
BURNER 


USKIN 
AND 
URNER 


Then  as  for  restricting  the  franchise  with  men  I  am  of  the 
firm  conviction  that  no  man  should  be  allowed  to  vote 
who  does  not  own  property,  or  who  cannot  do  consider- 
able more  than  read  and  write.  The  voter  makes  the  laws, 
and  why  should  the  laws  regulating  the  holding  of  prop- 
erty be  made  by  a  man  who  has  no  interest  in  property 
beyond  a  covetous  desire  ;  or  why  should  he  legislate  on 
education  when  he  possesses  none !  Then  again,  women 
do  not  bear  arms  to  protect  the  state."  MWIP 
"  But  what  do  you  say  to  the  argument  that  inasmuch  as 
men  do  not  bear  children  they  have  no  right  to  vote  :  going 
to  war  possibly  being  necessary  and  possibly  not,  but  the 
perpetuity  of  the  state  demanding  that  some  one  bear 
children  ?"  Jfjfs*' 

"  The  argument  is  ingenious  but  lacks  force  when  we 
consider  that  the  bearing  of  arms  is  a  matter  relating  to 
statecraft,  while  the  baby  question  is  Dame  Nature's  own, 
and  is  not  to  be  regulated  even  by  the  sovereign."  & 

IHEN  Mr.  Ruskin  talked  for  nearly  fifteen 
minutes  on  the  duty  of  the  state  to  the  in- 
dividual— talked  very  deliberately,  but  with 
Ithe  clearness  and  force  of  a  man  who  be- 
Ilieves  what  he  says  and  says  what  he  be- 
flieves.  So  my  friend  by  a  gentle  thrust  un- 
der the  fifth  rib  of  Mr.  Ruskin' s  logic  caused  him  to  come 
to  the  rescue  of  his  previously  expressed  opinions,  and 
we  had  the  satisfaction  of  hearing  him  discourse  earnestly 
and  eloquently  Jg^b 

Maiden  ladies  usually  have  an  opinion  ready  on  the  sub- 
ject of  masculine  methods,  and,  conversely,  much  of  the 
world's  logic  on  the  "  woman  question"  has  come  from 
the  bachelor  brain  V£*H? 

Mr.  Ruskin  went  quite  out  of  his  way  on  several  occasions 
in  times  past  to  attack  John  Stuart  Mill  for  heresy  "  in 
20 


EOAT5  f\CCOVCK!NQ 
AN 


opening  up  careers  for  women  other  than  that  of  wife  and 
mother."  When  Mill  did  not  answer  Mr.  Ruskin's  news- 
paper letters,  the  author  of  Sesame  and  Lilies  called  him 
a  "  cretinous  wretch  "  and  referred  to  him  as  "the  man 
of  no  imagination."  Mr.  Mill  may  have  been  a  cretinous 
wretch  (I  do  not  exactly  understand  the  phrase),  but  the 
preface  to  On  Liberty,  is  at  once  the  tenderest,  highest, 
and  most  sincere  compliment  paid  to  a  woman,  of  which 
I  know  *&&>  .£&> 

The  life  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  John  Stuart  Mill  shows  that  the 
perfect  mating  is  possible ;  yet  Mr.  Ruskin  has  only  scorn 
for  the  opinions  of  Mr.  Mill  on  a  subject  which  Mill  came 
as  near  personally  solving  in  a  matrimonial  "  experiment  " 
as  any  other  public  man  of  modern  times,  not  excepting 
even  Robert  Browning.  Therefore  we  might  suppose  Mr. 
Mill  entitled  to  speak  on  the  woman  question,  and  I 
intimated  as  much  to  Mr.  Ruskin.  "  He  might 
know  all  about  one  woman,  and  if  he  should 
regard  her  as  a  sample  of  all  woman- 
kind, would  he  not  make  a  great 
mistake  ?  "  I  was  silenced. 


Q&USKIN 

AND 
BURNER 


(RUSKIN 

AND 
BURNER 


a 


t 


N  Fors  Clavigera,  Letter  LIX,  the  author  says :  "  I 
never  wrote  a  letter  in  my  life  which  all  the  world  is 
not  welcome  to  read."  From  this  one  might  imagine 
thai  Mr.  Ruskin  never  loved — no  pressed  flowers  in 
books,  no  passages  of  poetry  double  marked  and 
scored,  no  bundles  of  letters  faded  and  yellow,  sa- 
cred for  his  own  eye,  tied  with  white  or  dainty  blue  rib- 
bon ;  no  little  nothings  hidden  away  in  the  bottom  of  a 
trunk.  And  yet  Mr.  Ruskin  has  his  ideas  on  the  woman 
question,  and  very  positive  ideas  they  are,  too — often 
sweetly  sympathetic  and  wisely  helpful  "*£& 
I  see  that  one  of  the  encyclopedias  mentions  Ruskin  as  a 
bachelor,  which  is  giving  rather  an  extended  meaning  to 
the  word,  for  although  Mr.  Ruskin  was  married  he  was  not 
mated.  According  to  Collingwood's  account,  this  marriage 
was  a  quiet  arrangement  between  parents.  Anyway  the 
genius  is  like  the  profligate  in  this :  when  he  marries  he 
generally  makes  a  woman  miserable.  And  misery  is  reac- 
tionary as  well  as  infectious.  Ruskin  is  a  genius. 
Genius  is  unique. No  satisfactory  analysis  of  it  has  yet  been 
given.  We  know  a  few  of  its  indications — that's  all.  First 
among  these  is  ability  to  concentrate.  No  seed  can  sow 
genius  ;  no  soil  can  grow  it ;  its  quality  is  inborn  and  defies 
both  cultivation  and  extermination  v<g^£ 
To  be  surpassed  is  never  pleasant ;  to  feel  your  inferiority 
is  to  feel  a  pang.  Seldom  is  there  a  person  great  enough  to 
find  satisfaction  is  the  success  of  a  friend  £f«  The  pleasure 
that  excellence  gives  is  oft  tainted  by  resentment ;  and  so 
the  woman  who  marries  a  genius  is  usually  unhappy  fi 
Genius  is  excess  :  it  is  obstructive  to  little  plans.  It  is  diffi- 
cult to  warm  yourself  at  a  conflagration  ;  the  tempest  may 
blow  you  away  ;  the  sun  dazzles  ;  lightning  seldom  strikes 
gently ;  the  Nile  overflows.  Genius  has  its  times  of  straying 
off  into  the  infinite  and  then  what  is  the  good  wife  to  do  for 

22 


companionship  ?  Does  she  protest ,  and  find  fault  ?  It  could 
not  be  otherwise,  for  genius  is  dictatorial  without  knowing 
it,  obstructive  without  wishing  to  be,  intolerant  unawares 
and  unsocial  because  it  cannot  help  it  "*$&& 
The  wife  of  a  genius  sometimes  takes  his  fits  of  abstraction 
for  stupidity,  and  having  the  man's  interests  at  heart  she 
endeavors  to  arouse  him  out  of  his  lethargy  by  chiding 
him.  Occasionally  he  arouses  enough  to  chide  back;  and 
so  it  has  become  an  axiom  that  genius  is  not  domestic. 

[HERE  is  no  doubt  but  that  Ruskin  loved 
Ihis  wife  sincerely,  or  at  least  thought  he  did. 
JHis  love  was  not  tainted  with  jealousy.  He 
(was  quite  willing  she  should  spend  several 
jhours  daily  with  his  dear  friend  Millais, 
mashing,  handsome,  healthy  Millais.  Mr. 
Ruskin  had  given  Millais  a  commission  to  paint  Mrs.  Rus- 
kin's  picture.  It  was  a  slow  task — this  portrait  painting. 
The  lady  had  a  splendid,  vivacious  countenance,  change- 
able as  a  summer  sky,  and  the  expressions  that  stole  over 
her  fine  face  were  so  paradoxical,  fleeting  and  confusing 
that  Millais  began  the  task  anew  each  morning  for  a  week 
and  destroyed  his  sketch  the  next  day,  as  Penelope  raveled 
the  garment  she  was  making  for  Ulysses.  But  then  came  a 
discovery,  an  awful  discovery  :  Millais  loved  the  woman, 
wife  of  his  dear  friend,  and  she  loved  Millais.  Conscience 
smote  them  like  a  two-edged  sword  and  a  torment  of  soul 
possessed  them.  But  two  can  endure  an  agony  of  this  kind 
better  than  one.  They  decided  to  go  to  the  great  man  whom 
they  had  injured  and  confess  all.  They  went,  hand  in  hand 
into  his  study  and,  on  their  knees,  told  the  story  of  their  love 
and  asked  for  judgment,  agreeing  to  leave  the  future  in 
his  hands  £t  John  Ruskin  heard  them  through  in  patient 
agony,  and  gave  them  his  blessing.  A  divorce  was  procured 
on  technical  grounds  and  at  the  altar  it  was  Ruskin  who 
gave  his  former  wife  into  the  keeping  of  Millais,  his  friend. 

23 


(RUSKIN 

AND 
BURNER 


USKIN 
AND 
URNER 


USKIN' S  father  was  a  prosperous  im- 
k  porter  of  wines.  He  left  his  son  a  for- 
tune equal  to  a  little  more  than  one  mil- 
lion dollars.  But  that  vast  fortune  has 
[gone — principal  and  interest — gone  in 
bequests,  gifts  and  experiments ;  and 
to-day  Mr.  Ruskin  has  no  income  save 
that  derived  from  the  sale  of  his  books. 
Talk  about  "  distribution  of  wealth  "  !  Here  we  have  it  & 
Turner  began  life  poor  and  died  worth  a  million  dollars. 
Ruskin  began  life  with  an  inheritance  of  a  million  dollars 
and  is  now  poor.  Ruskin  made  the  fortune  of  Turner ;  Tur- 
ner made  the  fame  of  Ruskin.  These  two  men,  totally  dif- 
ferent in  temperament,  one  college-bred,  the  other  self- 
taught,  with  varying  likes  and  dislikes,  will  go  down  in 
history  linked  together  ;  and  when  the  history  of  art  fails  to 
mention  one,  the  other,  too,  will  be  lost  in  the  dim,  grey 
waste  of  oblivion  MMU 

The  bread-and-butter  question  has  never  troubled  John 
Ruskin,  except  in  his  ardent  desire  that  others  should  be 
fed.  His  days  have  been  given  to  study  and  writing  from 
his  very  boyhood ;  he  has  made  money,  but  he  has  had  no 
time  to  save  it.  He  has  expressed  himself  on  every  theme 
that  interests  mankind  excepting  "  housemaid's  knee."  He 
has  written  more  letters  to  the  newspapers  than  "Old  Sub- 
scriber," "Fiat  Justitia,"  "  Indignant  Reader,"  and  "  Ver- 
itas  "  combined.  His  opinions  have  carried  much  weight 
and  directed  attention  into  necessary  lines ;  but  perhaps 
his  success  as  an  inspirer  of  thought  lies  in  the  fact  that 
his  sense  of  humor  exists  only  in  a  trace,  as  the  chemist 
might  say.  Men  who  perceive  the  ridiculous  would  never 
have  voiced  many  of  the  things  which  he  has  said. 
Surely  those  Sioux  Indians  who  stretched  a  hay  lariat 
across  the  Union  Pacific  railroad  in  order  to  stop  the  run- 

24 


AND 
BURNER 


ning  of  trains  had  small  sense  of  the  ridiculous.  But  If  looks       QfcUSKIN 
as  if  they  were  apostles  of  Ruskin,  each  and  all.  Some  one 
has  said  that  no  man  appreciates  the  beautiful  who  has  not 
a  keen  sense  of  humor :  for  the  beautiful  is  the  harmo- 
nious, and  the  laughable  is  the  absence  of  fit  adjustment. 
Mr.  Ruskin  disproves  the  maxim.  But  let  no  hasty  soul 
imagine  that  Ruskin's  opinions  on  practical  themes  are  not 
useful.  He  brings  to  bear  an  energy  on  every  subject  he 
touches  (and  what  subject  has  he  not  touched?)  that  is 
sure  to  make  the  sparks  of  thought  fly.  His  independent 
and  fearless  attitude  awakens  from  slumber  a  deal  of  doz- 
ing intellect  and  out  of  this  strife  of  opinion  comes  truth. 
Mr.  Ruskin  is  seventy-four  at  this  writing,  but  he  is 
as  serenely  stubborn  as  he  ever  was.  His  opposi- 
tion to  new  inventions  in  machinery  has  not 
relaxed  a  single  pulley's  turn.  You  grant 
his  premises  and  in  his  conclusions 
you  will  find  that  his  belt  never 
slips  and  his  logic  never 
jumps  a  cog. 


USKIN 
AND 
URNER 


HE  life  of  Mr.  Ruskin  is  as  regular  and 
exact  as  the  trains  on  the  Great  West- 
ern, and  his  days  are  more  peaceful 
than  ever  before.  He  has  regular  hours 
for  writing,  study, walking,  reading, eat- 
ing and  working  out  of  doors,  superin- 
tending the  cultivation  of  his  hundred 
acres.  He  told  me  that  he  had  not  var- 
ied a  half  hour  in  two  years  from  a  cer- 
tain time  of  going  to  bed  and  getting  up 
in  the  morning.  Although  his  form  is 
bowed,  this  regularity  of  life  has  borne 
fruit  in  the  rich  russet  of  his  complex- 
ion, the  mild,  clear  eye,  and  the  pleas- 
ure in  living  in  spite  of  occasional  pain, 
which  you  know  the  man  feels.  His  hair 
is  thick  and  nearly  white  ;  the  beard  is 
now  worn  quite  long  and  gives  a  patri- 
archal appearance  to  the  fine  face  **^ 
When  we  arose  to  leave  Mr. Ruskin  took 
a  white  felt  hat  from  the  elk  antlers  in 
the  hallway  and  a  stout  stick  from  the 
corner,  and  offered  to  show  us  a  nearer 
way  back  to  the  village.  We  walked 
down  a  footpath  through  the  tall  grass 
to  the  lake,  where  he  called  our  atten- 
tion to  various  varieties  of  ferns. 
We  shook  hands  with  the  old  gentle- 
man and  thanked  him  for  the  pleasure 
he  had  given  us.  He  was  still  examin- 
ing the  ferns  when  we  lifted  our  hats  and  bade  him  good 
day.  He  evidently  did  not  hear  us  for  I  heard  him  mutter  : 
"  I  verily  believe  those  miserable  Cook's  tourists  that  were 
down  here  yesterday  picked  some  of  my  ferns." 
26 


TURNER 


I  believe  that  these  works  of  Turner's  are  at 
their  first  appearing  as  perfect  as  those  of  Phidias 
or  Leonardo ;  that  is  to  say,  incapable  of  any  im- 
provement conceivable  by  human  mind. 

JOHN  RUSKIN. 


or 


HE  beauty  of  the  upper  Thames  with 
its  fairy  house-boats  and  green  banks 
has  been  sung  by  poets,  but  rash  is  the 
minstrel  who  tunes  his  lyre  to  sound 
the  praises  of  this  muddy  stream  in  the 
vicinity  of  Chelsea.  As  yellow  as  the  Ti- 
ber and  thick  as  the  Missouri  after  a 
flood,  it  comes  twice  a  day  bearing  upon 
its  tossing  tide  a  unique  assortment  of 
uncanny  sights  and  sickening  smells 
from  the  swarming  city  of  men  below. 
Chelsea  was  once  a  country  village  six 
miles  from  London  Bridge.  Now  the 
far-reaching  arms  of  the  metropolis 
have  taken  it  as  her  own.  Chelsea  may 
be  likened  to  some  rare  spinster,  grown 
old  with  years  and  good  works, and  now 
having  a  safe  home  with  a  rich  and  pow- 
erful benefactress.  Yet  Chelsea  is  not 
handsome  in  her  old  age,  and  Chelsea 
was  not  pretty  in  youth,  nor  fair  to  view 
in  middle  life  ;  but  Chelsea  has  been  the 
foster  mother  of  several  of  the  rarest 
and  fairest  souls  who  have  ever  made 
the  earth  pilgrimage  v€*^3  ^^ 
And  the  greatness  of  genius  still  rests 
upon  Chelsea  $»  As  we  walk  slowly 
through  its  winding  ways,  by  the  edge 
of  its  troubled  waters,  among  dark  and 
crooked  turns,  through  curious  courts, 
by  old  gateways  and  piles  of  steepled  stone,  where  flocks  of 
pigeons  wheel,  and  bells  chime,  and  organs  peal, and  winds 
sigh,  we  know  that  all  has  been  sanctified  by  their  pres- 
ence. Their  spirits  abide  with  us,  and  the  splendid  beauty 

33 


Q&USKIN 

AND 
BURNER 


AND 
BURNER 


of  their  visions  is  about  us.  For  the  stones  beneath  our  feet 
have  been  hallowed  by  their  tread, and  the  walls  have  borne 
their  shadows ;  so  all  mean  things  are  transfigured  and 
over  all  these  plain  and  narrow  streets  their  glory  gleams. 
And  it  is  the  great  men  and  they  alone  that  can  render  a 
place  sacred.  Chelsea  is  now  to  the  lovers  of  the  Beautiful 
a  sacred  name,  a  sacred  soil ;  a  place  of  pilgrimage  where 
certain  gods  of  Art  once  lived,  and  loved,  and  worked,  and 
died.  Sir  Thomas  More  lived  here  and  had  for  a  frequent 
guest  Erasmus.  Hans  Sloane  began  in  Chelsea  the  collec- 
tion of  curiosities  which  has  now  developed  into  the  British 
Museum.  Bishop  Atterbury    (who  claimed  that  Dryden 
was  a  greater  poet  than  Shakespeare),  Dean  Swift  and  Dr. 
Arbuthnot,  all  lived  in  Church  Street ;  Richard  Steele  just 
around  the  corner  and  Leigh  Hunt  in  Cheyne  Row ; 
but  it  was  from  another  name  that  the  little  street 
was  to  be  immortalized  ~^£&  If  France  con- 
stantly has  forty  Immortals  in  the  flesh, 
surely  it  is  a  modest  claim  to  say  that 
Chelsea  has  three  for  all  time : 
Thomas    Carlyle,     George 
Eliot,  and  Joseph  Mai- 
lord  William  Turner. 


34 


lURNER'S  father  was  a  barber.  His  youth 
was  passed  in  poverty,  and  his  advantages 
for  education  were  very  slight.  And  all  this 
lin  the  crowded  city  of  London  where  merit 
Imay  knock  long  and  still  not  be  heard,  and 
Jin  a  country  where  wealth  and  title  count 
for  much.  When  a  boy,  barefoot  and  ragged,  he  would 
wander  away  alone  on  the  banks  of  the  river  and  dream 
dreams  about  wonderful  palaces  and  beautiful  scenes  ;  and 
then  he  would  trace  with  a  stick  in  the  sands,  endeavor- 
ing, with  mud,  to  make  plain  to  the  eye  the  things  that 
his  soul  saw  d^jfy** 

His  mother  was  quite  sure  that  no  good  could  come  from 
this  vagabondish  nature,  and  she  did  not  spare  the  rod,  for 
she  feared  that  the  desire  to  scrawl  and  daub  would  spoil 
the  child.  But  he  was  a  stubborn  lad,  with  a  pug  nose  and 
big,  dreamy,  wondering  eyes  and  a  heavy  jaw.  And  when 
parents  see  that  they  have  such  a  son  they  had  better  hang 
up  the  rod  behind  the  kitchen  door  and  lay  aside  force  and 
cease  scolding.  For  love  is  better  than  a  cat-o'-nine-tails, 
and  sympathy  saves  more  souls  than  threats.  &$$> 
The  elder  Turner  considered  that  the  proper  use  of  a 
brush  was  to  lather  chins.  But  the  boy  thought  differently, 
and  once  surreptitiously  took  one  of  his  father's  brushes 
to  paint  a  picture  ;  the  brush  on  being  returned  to  its  cup 
was  used  the  next  day  upon  a  worthy  haberdasher,  whose 
cheeks  were  shortly  colored  a  vermilion  that  matched  his 
nose.  This  lost  the  barber  a  customer  and  secured  the  boy 
a  thrashing  ,£&>  <&@S> 

Young  Turner  did  not  always  wash  his  father's  shop  win- 
dows well,  nor  sweep  off  the  sidewalk  properly.  Like  all 
boys  he  would  rather  work  for  some  one  else  than  "  his 
folks."  M^ 
When  ten  years  of  age  the  sorrow  that  came  to  his  boyish 

35 


(KUSKIN 

AND 
BURNER 


Q^USKIN        heart  was  grimmer,  ghastlier,  than  any  other  sorrow  that 
can  cloud  the  sky  of  childhood,  worse  than  orphanage,  worse 
than  death.  The  last  look  at  the  cold,  calm  face  of  the  dead 
BURNER        may  bring  with  it  a  tithe  of  peace  :  grief  gives  way  to  ac- 
quiescence, and  we  are  moved  to  nobler  thoughts.  By  ac- 
cepting a  sorrow  we    divest  it  of  its  sting.  But  for  the 
darkened  mind,  where  the  body  lives  and  the  soul  has 
seemingly  withdrawn,  there  is  no  compensation.  In  her 
times  of  aberration  young  Turner's  mother  attacked  her 
children,  disowned  them,  disclaimed  them  ;  until  there 
came  a  time  when  strong  men  had  to  bind  her 
with  cords  and  she   was  carried   screaming 
away.  And  these  were  the  last  impres- 
sions  of  her  who  bore   him,   made 
on  the  tender,  sensitive  heart 
that  hungered  for  a 
mother's  love. 


DAT  Or  DA'X: 

APOLLO  AND   TMC 


[HE  lad  used  to  run  errands  for  an 
engraver  by  the  name  of  Smith — 
Ijohn  Raphael  Smith.  Once  when 
1  Smith  sent  the  barber's  boy  with  a 
letter  to  a  certain  art  gallery  with 
orders  to  "get  the  answer  and  hurry 
back,  mind  you  !  "  the  boy  forgot  to 
get  the  answer  and  to  hurry  back. 
|Then  another  boy  was  despatched 
after  the  first,  and  boy  Number  Two  found  boy  Number 
One  sitting,  with  staring  eyes  and  open  mouth,  in 
the  art  gallery  before  a  painting  of  Claude  Lorraine's. 
When  boy  Number  One  was  at  last  half  forcibly  dragged 
away  and  reached  the  shop  of  his  master  he  got  his  ears 
well  cuffed  for  his  forgetfulness.  But  from  that  day  forth 
he  was  not  the  same  being  that  he  had  been  before  his 
eyes  fell  on  that  Claude  Lorraine  v&tHF 
He  was  transformed,  as  much  so  as  was  Lazarus  after  he 
was  called  from  beyond  the  portals  of  death  and  had  come 
back  to  earth,  bearing  in  his  heart  the  secrets  of  the  grave. 
From  that  time  he  thought  of  Claude  Lorraine  during  the 
day  and  dreamed  of  him  at  night,  and  he  stole  away  into 
every  exhibition  where  a  Claude  was  to  be  seen.  And  now 
I  wish  that  Claude  Lorraine  was  the  subject  of  this  sketch, 
as  well  as  Turner,  for  his  life  is  a  picture  full  of  the  sweet- 
est poetry,  framed  in  a  world  of  dullest  prose  ^^ 
The  eyes  of  this  boy  whom  they  had  thought  dreamy, 
dull,  and  listless,  now  shone  with  a  different  light.  He 
thirsted  to  achieve,  to  do,  to  become — yes,  to  become  a 
greater  painter  than  Claude  Lorraine.  His  employer  saw 
the  change  and  smiled  at  it,  but  he  allowed  the  lad  to  put 
in  back-grounds  and  add  the  skies  to  cheap  prints,  just  be- 
cause the  youngster  teased  to  do  it  *§4& 
Then  one  day  a  patron  of  the  shop  came  and  looking 

37 


(RUSKIN 

AND 
BURNER 


(RuSKIN  over  the  shoulder  of  the   Turner  boy,   said:   "He  has 

'  ANn  s^^ — perhaps  talent."  And  I  think  that  the  Recording  An- 

gel should  give  this  man  a  separate  page  on  the  Book  of 
BURNER  Remembrance  and  write  his  name  in  illumined  colors,  for 

he  gave  young  Turner  access  to  his  own  collection 
and  to  his  library,  and  he  never  cuffed  him,  nor 
kicked  him,  nor  called  him  dunce ;  whereat 
the   boy  was   much   surprised.   But  he 
encouraged  the  youth  to  sketch  a  pic- 
ture in  water  colors  and  then  he 
r*-i  bought  the  picture  and  paid 

•  •  him  ten  shillings  for  it ; 

'•  and  the  name  of  this 

man   was  Doc- 
!?r  tor   Munro. 


I  HEN  young  Turner  was  fourteen,  the 
following  year,  Dr.  Munro  had  him 
admitted  to  the  Royal  Academy  as  a 
student,and  in  1790  he  exhibited  a  water 
color  of  the  Archbishop's  Palace  at 
Lambeth  ^€£3 

The  picture  took  no  prize,  and,  doubt- 
less was  not  worthy  of  one,  but  from 
mow  on  Joseph  M.  W.  Turner  was  an 
[artist,  and  other  hands  had  to  sweep 
Jthe  barber  shop  t^&> 
JBut  he  sold  few  pictures — they  were 
[not  popular.  Other  artists  scorned  him, 
[possibly  intuitively  fearing  him, for  me- 
[diocrity  always  fears  when  the  ghost  of 
[genius  does  not  down  at  its  bidding. 
[Then  Turner  was  accounted  unsoci- 
[able ;  besides  he  was  ragged,  uncouth, 
[independent,  and  did  not  conform  to 
[the  ways  of  society ;  so  the  select  cir- 
[cle  cast  him  out,  more  properly  speak- 
ing, did  not  let  him  in  V*MP 
Still  he  worked  and  exhibited  at  every 
Academy  Exhibition;  yet  he  was  often 
hungry,  and  the  London  fog  crept 
cold  and  damp  through  his  threadbare 
clothes.  But  he  toiled  on,  for  Claude 
Lorraine  was  ever  before  him  "V^ 
In  1802,  when  twenty-seven  years  of 
I  age,  he  visited  France  and  made  a  tour 
through  Switzerland,  tramping  over  many  long  miles  with 
his  painting  kit  on  his  back,  and  he  brought  back  rich 
treasures  in  the  way  of  sketches  and  quickened  imagina- 
tion. In  the  years  following  he  took  many  such  trips,  and 

39 


Q&USKIN 

AND 
BURNER 


QptuSKIN 

AND 
BURNER 


came  to  know  Venice,  Rome,  Florence  and  Paris  as  per- 
fectly as  his  own  London  t=^&£p> 

When  thirty-three  years  of  age  he  was  still  worshipping 
at  the  shrine  of  Claude  Lorraine.  His  pictures  painted  at 
this  time  are  evidence  of  his  ideal,  and  his  book,  Liber 
Studiorum,  issued  in  1808,  is  modeled  after  the  Liber  Veri- 
tatis.  But  the  book  surpasses  Claude's,  and  Turner  knew 
it,  and  this  may  have  led  him  to  burst  his  shackles  and 
cast  loose  from  his  idol.  For  in  1815  we  find  him  working 
according  to  his  own  ideas,  showing  an  originality  and  au- 
dacity in  conception  and  execution  that  made  him  the  butt 
of  the  critics,  and  caused  consternation  to  rage  through  the 
studios  of  competitors  »^s£> 

Gradually  it  dawned  upon  a  few  scattered  collectors  that 
things  so  strongly  condemned  must  have  merit,  for  why 
should  the  pack  bay  so  loudly  if  there  were  no  quarry  !  So 
to  have  a  Turner  was  at  least  something  for  your  friends 
to  discuss.  Then  carriages  began  to  stop  before  the  dingy 
building  at  47  Queen  Anne  Street  and  broadcloth  and  satin 
mounted  the  creaking  stairs  to  the  studio.  It  happened 
about  this  time  that  Turner's  prices  began  to  increase. 
Like  the  Sibyl  of  old, if  a  customer  said  "  I  do  not  want  it," 
the  painter  put  an  extra  ten  pounds  on  the  price.  For  Dido 
Building  Carthage,  Turner's  original  price  was  five  hun- 
dred pounds.  People  came  to  see  the  picture  and  they 
said,  "  The  price  is  too  high."  Next  day  Turner's 
price   for  the    Carthage   was   one   thousand 
pounds.  Finally  Sir  Robert  Peel  offered 
the  painter  five  thousand  pounds  for 
the  picture,  but  Turner  said  he 
had  decided  to  keep  it  for 
himself,  and  he  did. 


40 


CALA1J  PICf\:       . 

FOR 


PACKET   AF^IVINQ 


N  THE  forepart  of  his  career  he  sold  few 
pictures  ;  for  the  simple  reason  that  no  one 
wanted  them.  And  he  sold  few  pictures  dur- 
ing the  latter  years  of  his  life,  for  the  reason 
that  his  prices  were  so  high  that  none  but 
the  very  rich  could  buy  (3§k  First  the  public 
scorned  Turner.  Next  Turner  scorned  the 
public.  In  the  beginning  it  would  not  buy  his 
pictures,  later  it  could  not  MWIP 
A  frivolous  public  and  shallow  press  from  his 
first  exhibition,  when  fifteen  years  of  age,  to 
his  last,when  seventy.made  sport  of  his  orig- 
inalities. But  for  merit  there  is  a  recompense 
in  sneers,  and  a  benefit  in  sarcasms,  and  a 
compensation  in  hate  :  for  when  these  things 
get  too  pronounced,  a  champion  appears. 
And  so  it  was  with  Turner.  Next  to  having  a 
Boswell  write  one's  life,  what  is  better  than 
a  Ruskin  to  uphold  one's  cause  ?  J£  J£  J£ 
Success  came  slowly ;  his  wants  were  few, 
but  his  ambition  never  slackened,  and  finally 
the  dreams  of  his  youth  became  the  realities 
of  his  manhood  «4ftfc 

When  twenty-two  Turner  loved  a  beautiful 
girl — they  became  engaged.  He  went  away 
on  a  tramp  sketching  tour  and  wrote  his  lady- 
love just  one  short  letter  each  month.  He  be- 
lieved that  "  absence  only  makes  the  heart 
grow  fonder,"  not  knowing  that  this  state- 
ment is  only  the  vagary  of  a  poet.  When  he 
returned  the  lady  was  betrothed  to  another.  He  gave  the 
pair  his  blessing  and  remained  a  bachelor — a  very  con- 
firmed bachelor.  Perhaps,  however,  the  reason  his  fiance 
proved  untrue  was  not  through  lack  of  the  epistles  he 

41 


(RUSKIN 

AND 
BURNER 


QfvUSKIN  wrote  her,  but  on  account  of  them.  In  the  British  Museum 

I  examined  several  letters  written  by  Turner.  They  ap- 
AND 

peared  very  much  like  copy  for  a  Josh  Billings  Almanac. 

Such  originality  in  spelling,  punctuation,  and  use  of  capi- 
tals !  It  was  admirable  in  uniqueness  $%  Turner  did  not 
think  in  words — he  could  think  only  in  paint  *&&  But  the 
young  lady  did  not  know  this,  and  when  a  letter  came 
from  her  homely  little  lover  she  was  shocked,  then 
she  laughed,  then  she  showed  these  letters  to  a 
nice  young  man  whowas  clerk  to  a  fishmonger 
and  he  laughed,  then  they  both  laughed. 

Then  this  nice  young  man  and  this 
n  beautiful  young  lady  became  en- 

gaged,and  they  were  married 
at  St.  Andrew's  on  a  love- 
ly May  morning.  And 
they  lived  happily 
ever  afterward. 


ON  KINGSTON  BANK 


IURNER  was  small,  and  in  appearance 
jplain.  Yet  he  was  big  enough  to  paint  a  big 
(picture,  and  he  was  not  so  homely  as  to 
jfrighten  away  all  beautiful  women  jfr  But 
(Philip  Gilbert  Hamerton  tells  us  :  "  Fortu- 
mate  in  many  things, Turner  was  lamentably 
unfortunate  in  this  :  that  throughout  his  whole  life  he 
never  came  under  the  ennobling  and  refining  influence  of 
a  good  woman  *V^ 

Like  Plato,  Michael  Angelo,  Sir  Isaac  Newton,  and  his 
own  Claude  Lorraine,  he  was  wedded  to  his  art.  But  at 
sixty-five  his  genius  suddenly  burst  forth  afresh,  and  his 
work,  Mr.  Ruskin  says,  at  that  time  exceeded  in  daring 
brilliancy  and  in  the  rich  flowering  of  imagination  any- 
thing that  he  had  previously  done.  Mr.  Ruskin  could  give 
no  reason,  but  rumor  says  :  "  A  woman." 
The  one  weakness  of  our  hero,  that  hung  to  him  for  life, 
was  the  idea  that  he  could  write  poetry.  The  tragedian 
always  thinks  he  can  succeed  in  comedy,  the  comedian 
spends  hours  in  his  garret  rehearsing  tragedy;  most  preach- 
ers have  an  idea  that  they  could  have  made  a  quick  for- 
tune in  business,  and  many  business  men  are  very  sure 
that  if  they  had  taken  to  the  pulpit  there  would  now  be 
fewer  empty  pews.  So  the  greatest  landscape  painter  of 
modern  times  imagined  himself  a  poet.  Hamerton  says 
that  Turner's  verse  would  serve  well  for  remarkable 
specimens  of  grammar,  spelling,  and  construction  to  be 
given  to  little  boys  to  correct  *&&> 

IURNER' S  studio  was  plain,  dingy,  unpainted, 
luncarpeted,  unkempt.  He  did  not  decorate  with 
(Oriental  tissues  or  strange  vases  from  beyond 
[the  sea — or  swords  or  spears  or  strange  artistic 
bits:  his  life  was  simple  as  that  of  a  carpenter.  He  surround- 
ed himself  with  no  luxuries,  no  marble  statuary  or  ebony 

43 


Q&USKIN 

AND 
BURNER 


AND 
BURNER 


cabinets  inlaid  with  malachite  or  lapis  lazuli.  His  life  was 
plain  to  severity  and  stern  to  the  verge  of  hardship,  but  to 
a  man  in  good  health,  who  holds  beauty  in  his  heart,  there 
is  a  satisfaction  in  simplicity  that  can  never  come  from  the 
ownership  of  things.  In  ownership  there  is  often  a  curse. 
One  spot  in  Turner's  life  over  which  I  like  to  linger  is  his 
friendship  with  Sir  Walter  Scott.  They  collaborated  in 
the  production  of  Provincial  Antiquities  and  spent  many 
happy  hours  together  tramping  over  Scottish  moors  and 
mountains.  Sir  Walter  lived  out  his  days  in  happy  ignor- 
ance concerning  the  art  of  painting,  and  although  he  liked 
the  society  of  Turner,  he  confessed  that  it  was  quite  be- 
yond his  ken  why  people  bought  his  pictures.  "  And  as  for 
your  books,"  said  Turner,  "  the  covers  of  some  are  cer- 
tainly very  pretty."  Yet  these  men  took  a  satisfaction  in 
each  other's  society,  such  as  brothers  might  enjoy,  but 
without  either  appreciating  the  greatness  of  the  other. 
Turner's  temperament  was  audacious,  self-cen- 
tred, self-reliant,  eager  for  success  and  fame, 
yet  at  the  same  time  scorning  public  opin- 
ion— a  paradox  often  found  in  the  ar- 
tistic mind  of  the  first  class  ;  si- 
lent always — with  a  bitter  si- 
lence, disdaining  to  tell  his 
meaning  when  the  crit- 
ics could  not  per- 
ceive it. 


44 


He  was  above  all  things  always  the  artist,  never  the  real-       QyUSKIN 
ist.  The  realist  pictures  the  things  he  sees  ;  the  artist  ex-          *  Aiun 
presses  that  which  he  feels.  Children,  and  all  simple  folk 
who  use  pen,  pencil,  or  brush,  describe  the  things  they      BURNER 
behold.  As  intellect  develops  and  goes  more  in  partnership 
with  hand,  imagination  soars  and  things  are  outlined  that 
no  man  can  see  except  he  be  able  to  perceive  the  invisi- 
ble. To  appreciate  a  work  of  art  you  must  feel  as  the  ar- 
tist felt.  Now  it  is  very  plain  that  the  vast  majority  of 
people  are  not  capable  of  this  high  sense  of  sublimity 
which  the  creative  artist  feels  ;  and  therefore  they 
do   not  understand,  and  not   understanding 
they  wax  merry,  or  cynical,  or  sarcastic, 
or  wrathful,  or  envious ;  or  they  pass 
by  unmoved  J£  And  I  maintain 
that  those  who  pass  by  un- 
moved  are  more  right- 
eous than  they 
who  scoff. 


45 


QfluSKIN 

AND 
BURNER 


F  I  should  attempt  to  explain  to  my  little  girl  the 
awe  I  feel  when  I  contemplate  the  miracle  of  ma- 
ternity, she  would  probably  change  the  subject  by 
prattling  to  me  about  a  kitten  that  she  saw  lapping 
milk  from  a  blue  saucer.  If  I  should  attempt  to  ex- 
plain to  some  men  what  I  feel  when  I  contemplate 
the  miracle  of  maternity,  they  would  smile  and  turn  it  all 
into  an  unspeakable  jest.  Is  not  the  child  nearer  to  God 
than  the  man  ?  c=&&> 

"We  thus  see  why  Browning  is  only  a  joke  to  many,  Whit- 
man an  eccentric,  Dante  insane,  and  Turner  a  pretender. 
These  have  all  sought  to  express  things  which  the  many 
cannot  feel,  and  consequently  they  have  been,  and  are, 
the  butt  of  jokes  and  gibes  innumerable.  "  Except  ye  be- 
come as  little  children,"  etc. — And  yet  the  scoffers  are 
often  people  of  worth.  Nothing  shows  the  limitation  of 
humanity  as  this :  genius  often  does  not  appreciate  genius. 
The  inspired,  strangely  enough,  are  like  the  fools,  they  do 
not  recognize  inspiration  "VW 

N    Englishman   called   on   Voltaire    and 
found  him  in  bed  reading  Shakespeare. 

"  What  are  you  reading?"   asked  the 
visitor. 

"  Your  Shakespeare  !  "  said  the  philos- 
opher ;  and  as  he  answered  he  flung  the 
book  across  the  room. 

"  He's  not  my  Shakespeare,"  said  the  Englishman. 
Greene,  Rymer,  Dryden,  Warburton,  and  Dr.  Johnson 
used  collectively  or  individually  the  following  expressions 
in  describing  the  work  of  the  author  of  Hamlet :  conceit, 
overreach,  word-play,  extravagance,  overdone,  absurdity, 
obscurity,  puerility,  bombast,  idiocy,  untruth,  improba- 
bility, drivel.  Byron  wrote  from  Florence  to  Murray  :  "  I 
know  nothing  of  painting,  and  I  abhor  and  spit  upon  all 
46 


DCRIDINQ 

POLYPHEMUS 


saints  and  so-called  spiritual  subjects  that  I  see  portrayed 

in  these  churches."   *$*£& 

UT  the  past  is  so  crowded  with  vituperation 
that  it  is  difficult  to  select  —  besides  that  we  do 
not  wish  to  ;  but  let  us  take  a  sample  of  arro- 
gance from  yesterday  to  prove  our  point  and  then 


drop  the  theme  for  something  pleasanter 

Pew  and  pulpit  have  fallen  over  each  other  for  the  privil- 

ege of  hitting  Darwin  ;  a  Bishop  warns  his  congregation 

that  Emerson  is  "  dangerous  ;  "  Spurgeon  calls  Shelley  a 

sensualist  ;  Dr.  Buckley  speaks  of  Susan  B.  Anthony  as 

the  leader  of  "the  short-haired;  "  Talmage  cracks  jokes 

about  evolution,  referring  feelingly  to  "  monkey  an- 

cestry;" and  a  prominent  divine  of  England  writes 

the  World's  Congress  of  Religions  down  as 

"  pious  wax-works."  These  things  being 

true,  and  all  the  sentiments  quoted 

coming  from  "  good  "  but  blindly 

zealous  men,  is  it  a  wonder 

that  the  artist  is  not 

understood  ? 


QPIUSKIN 

AND 
BURNER 


47 


QptuSKIN 

AND 
BURNER 


i  BRILLIANT  picture  called  Cologne— 
[Evening,  attracted  much  attention  at 
he  Academy  Exhibition  of  1826.  One 
ay  the  people  who  often  collected 
round  Turner's  work  were  shocked  to 
ee  that  the  beautiful  canvas  had  lost  its 
rilliancy,  and  evidently  had  been  tam- 
pered with  by  some  miscreant.  A  friend 
ran  to  inform  Turner  of  the  bad  news  :  "  Don't  say  any- 
thing. I  only  smirched  it  with  lampblack.  It  was  spoiling 
the  effect  of  Laurence's  picture  that  hung  next  to  it.  The 
black  will  all  wash  off  after  the  exhibition."  MWf 
And  his  tender  treatment  of  his  aged  father  shows  the 
gentle  side  of  his  nature.  The  old  barber,  whose  trem- 
bling hand  could  no  longer  hold  a  razor,  wished  to  remain 
under  his  son's  roof  in  guise  of  a  servant,  but  the  son  said  : 
"  No,  we  fought  the  world  together,  and  now  that  it  seeks 
to  do  me  honor  you  shall  share  all  the  benefits."  And 
Turner  never  smiled  when  the  little  wizened  old  man 
would  whisper  to  some  visitor  :  "  Yes,  yes,  Joseph  is  the 
greatest  artist  in  England,  and  I  am  his  father."  **%£& 
Turner  had  a  way  of  sending  ten-pound  notes  in  blank  en- 
velopes to  artists  in  distress,  and  he  did  this  so  frequently 
that  the  news  got  out  finally,  but  never  through  Turner's 
telling,  and  then  he  had  to  adopt  other  methods  of  doing 
good  by  stealth  *&MF 

DO  not  contend  that  Turner's  character  was 
immaculate,  but  still  it  is  very  probable  that 
worldlings  do  not  appreciate  what  a  small 
'part  of  this  great  genius  touched  the  mire.  To 
prove  the  sordidness  of  the  man  one  critic  tells,  with  vis- 
age awfully  solemn,  how  Turner  once  gave  an  en- 
graving to  a  friend  and  then  after  a  year  sent  demanding 
it  back.  But  to  a  person  with  a  groat's  worth  of  wit  the 
48 


matter  is  plain  :  the  dreamy,abstracted  artist,who  bumped 
into  his  next  door  neighbors  on  the  street  and  never  knew 
them,  forgot  he  had  given  the  picture  and  believed  he  had 
only  loaned  it.  This  is  made  still  more  apparent  by  the 
fact  that,  when  he  sent  for  the  engraving  in  question,  he 
administered  a  rebuke  to  the  man  for  keeping  it  so  long. 
The  poor  dullard  who  received  the  note  flew  into  a  rage 
— returned  the  picture — sent  his  compliments  and  begged 
the  great  artist  to  "  take  your  picture  and  go  to  the  devil." 
Then  certain  scribblers  who  through  mental  disuse  had 
lost  the  capacity  for  mirth, dipped  their  pens  in  aqua  fortis 
and  wrote  of  the  "  innate  meanness,"  the  "malice  pre- 
pense," and  the  "  Old  Adam  "  that  dwelt  in  the  heart  of 
Turner.  No  one  laughed  except  a  few  Irishmen,  and  an 
American,  who  chanced  to  hear  the  story  ^V5^ 

F  TURNER'S  many  pictures  I  will  mention  in 
detail  but  two,  both  of  which  are  to  be  seen  on 
the  walls  of  the  National  Gallery.  First,  the 
old  Temeraire.  This  warship  had  been  sold  out 


of  service  and  was  being  towed  away  to  be  broken  up. 
The  scene  was  photographed  on  Turner's  brain,  and  he 
immortalized  it  on  canvas.  We  cannot  do  better  than  to 
borrow  the  words  of  Mr.  Ruskin  :  •*£& 
"  Of  all  pictures  not  visibly  involving  human  pain  this  is 
the  most  pathetic  ever  painted.  The  utmost  pensiveness 
which  can  ordinarily  be  given  to  a  landscape  depends  on 
adjuncts  of  ruin,  but  no  ruin  was  ever  so  affecting  as  the 
gliding  of  this  ship  to  her  grave.  This  particular  ship, 
crowned  in  the  Trafalgar  hour  of  trial  with  chief  victory — 
surely  if  ever  anything  without  a  soul  deserved  honor  or 
affection  we  owe  them  here  t£D  Surely  some  sacred  care 
might  have  been  left  in  our  thoughts  for  her ;  some  quiet 
space  amidst  the  lapse  of  English  waters!  Nay,  not  so. 
We  have  stern  keepers  to  trust  her  glory  to — the  fire  and 

49 


Q^USKIN 
AND 

BURNER 


AND 
BURNER 


the  worm.  Nevermore  shall  sunset  lay  golden  robe  upon 
her,  nor  starlight  tremble  on  the  waves  that  part  at  her 
gliding.  Perhaps  where  the  low  gate  opens  to  some  cot- 
tage garden,the  tired  traveller  may  ask,  idly,why  the  moss 
grows  so  green  on  the  rugged  wood ;  and  even  the  sailor's 
child  may  not  know  that  the  night  dew  lies  deep  in  the  war 
rents  of  the  old  Temeraire."  rf^Sfr 

I  HE  Burial  of  Sir  David  Wilkie  at 
Sea    has    brought  tears  to   many 
[eyes.  Yet  there  is  no  burial.  The 
[ship  is  far  away  in  the  gloom  of  the 
offing ;   you   cannot   distinguish  a 
single  figure  on  her  decks  ;  but  you 
behold  her  great  sails  standing  out 
against  the  leaden  blackness  of  the 
I  night  and  you  feel  that  out  there  a 
certain  scene  is  being  enacted.  And  if  you  listen  closely 
you  can  hear  the  solemn  voice  of  the  captain  as 
he  reads  the  burial  service ;  then  there 
is  a  pause — a  swift  sliding  sound 
— a  splash  and  all  is  over. 


•\ 


THE  riQMTlNQ  TCMCRAIKC 


ICTURES  by  Turner  to  the  number  of  fRlJSKIN 
nineteen  thousand  were  left  to  the  Brit- 
ish Nation  by  the  artist's  will.  Many  of 
them,  of  course,  are  merely  sketches. 
These  pictures  are  now  to  be  seen  in 
the  National  Gallery  in  rooms  set  apart 


and  sacred  to  Turner's  work.   For  fear  that  it  may  be 
thought  that  the  number  mentioned  above  is  a  misprint, 
let  us  say  that  if  he  had  produced  one  picture  a  day  for  fifty 
years,  it  would  not  equal  the  number  of  pieces  bestowed 
by  his  will  on  the  nation.  This  of  course  takes  no  ac- 
count of  the  pictures  sold  during  his  lifetime,  and, 
as  he  left  a  fortune  of  one  hundred  and  forty- 
four  thousand  pounds   ($720,000.00),  we 
may  infer  that  not  all  of  his  pic- 
tures were  given  away. 


AND 
BURNER 


USKIN 

AND 

URNER 


[ING  of  modern  painters,  he  has  been 
called ;  but  neither  during  life  nor  at 
I  his  death  was  he  surrounded  by  regal 
'trappings.  At  Chelsea  I  stood  in  the 
'little  room  where  he  breathed  his  last, 
'that  bleak  day  in  1851.  The  unlettered 
Lbut  motherly  old  woman  who  took 
^vcare  of  him  in  those  last  days  never 
guessed  his  greatness ;  none  in  the  house  or  neighborhood 
knew.  To  them  he  was  only  Mr.  Booth,  an  eccentric  old 
man  of  moderate  means  who  liked  to  muse,  read,  and  play 
with  children.  He  had  no  callers,  no  friends ;  he  went  to 
the  city  every  day  and  came  back  at  night.  He  talked  but 
little,  he  was  absent-minded,  he  smoked  and  thought  and 
smiled  and  muttered  to  himself.  He  never  went  to  church; 
but  once  one  of  the  lodgers  asked  him  what  he  thought  of 


"  God,  God — what  do  I  know  of  God,  what  does  any  one  ! 
He  is  our  life — He  is  the  All,  but  we  need  not  fear  Him — 
all  we  can  do  is  to  speak  the  truth  and  do  our  work.  To- 
morrow we  go — where  ?  I  know  not,  but  I  am  not  afraid." 
Of  art,  to  these  strangers,  he  would  never  speak.  Once 
they  urged  him  to  go  with  them  to  an  exhibition  at  Ken- 
sington. He  smiled  feebly,  as  he  lit  his  pipe,  and  said, 
"  An  Art  Exhibition  ?  No,  no  ;  a  man  can  show  on  canvas 
so  little  of  what  he  feels,  it  is  not  worth  the  while." 

T  LAST  he  died — passed  peacefully  away,  and 
his  attorney  came  and  took  charge  of  the  re- 
mains. Many  are  the  hard  words  that  have  been 
flung  off  by  heedless  tongues  about  Turner's 


taking  an  assumed  name  and  living  in  obscurity,  but  "what 
you  call  fault  I  call  accent."  Surely  if  a  great  man  and 
world  famous  desires  to  escape  the  flatterers  and  the  silken 
mesh  of  so-called  society  and  live  the  life  of  simplicity  he 

52 


DIDO    DIRECTING   TME   EQUIPMENT 
Or   THE    TLEET 


W/l. 

• 


has  a  right  to  do  so.  Again,  Turner  was  a  very  rich  man 
in  his  old  age  ;  he  did  much  for  struggling  artists  and 
assisted  aspiring  merit  in  many  ways.  So  it  came  about 
that  his  mail  was  burdened  with  begging  letters  and  his 
life  made  miserable  by  appeals  from  impecunious  persons, 
good  and  bad,  and  from  churches,  societies,  and  associa- 
tions without  number.  He  decided  to  flee  them  all;  and  he 


The  "  Carthage,"  mentioned  on  a  former  page,is  one  of  his 
finest  works,  and  he  esteemed  it  so  highly  that  he  re- 
quested that  when  death  came  his  body  should  be  buried, 
wrapped  in  its  magnificent  folds.  But  the  wish  was  dis- 
regarded &  &  & 

His  remains  rest  in  the  crypt  of  St.  Paul's,  beside  the  dust 

of  Reynolds.  His  statue,  in  marble,  adorns  a  niche  in 

the  great  cathedral,  and   his    name  is  secure 

high  on  the  roll  of  honor.  And  if  for  no 

other  reason  the  name  and  fame  of 

Chelsea  should  be  deathless 

as  the  home  of  Turner. 


AND 

BURNER 


s 


53 


„<* 


NUMQUAM  HUIC  LIBRO 
INJURIAM  QUI  VELIT  BENEVOLEN 
TEM  SANCTI  PETRI  FACIEM 


v 


